Memories
of Formica
kitchens
And 2-burner
Hotpoint
stoves
Lipstick on
a menthol
butt
Costume
pearls
in rows
Perfume
from the
five and dime
Drive In’s
on the
field
A promise
made
a promise kept
And
love
— that time can’t steal
(Listening To Patsy Cline: July 4th, 2025)
It doesn’t matter where you stay
A huge mansion or hut of clay
We all wake up beneath one sky
And breathe the same air drifting by.
So take a broom, begin today
Clear the plastic, sweep decay.
The earth we spoil is ours to mend
Its health is ours to defend.
Don’t stop at your living room
Or just your dining space
Think of smoke from your stoves
And soaps that rivers face.
We all must rise and care
From bosses in high towers
To workers chasing daily fare
A clean world blooms with power.
The Odd Narrative
Steamed up the window, my finger I paint a landscape,
Mountain, forest, and lake; the peak cries into
the lake becomes a vast ocean,
where trees made into wooden rafts floats
Midmorning, there is only an outline left of the crest,
this will happen to the Himalayas,
it will be a grassland on a plateau where horses gallop,
flying mane and all that,
since man won’t be there to domesticate and make them
drag bunk beds and kitchen stoves around the pampas.
The rest of the world will have sunk into a big sea that is so still
it spends all its time mirroring the blue sky thinking, it’s seeing
is so deeply in love with the image,
that doesn’t notice the man in a rowing boat; he’s one time forgotten,
he has married a big fish
which he thinks is a mermaid, often puts his hand in
the sea and strokes the fish’s belly: “without you,” he murmurs
“I would truly be alone.”
mother needed a new stove
everyone had white stoves in the sixties
it was the approved color
appliance store up town received a sample stove
it was painted a blazing bright red
not what any self-respecting cook would want
it cost way less than the other stoves
my parents bought it
mom redecorated her kitchen in red
everyone who saw it wanted a red stove
they ran uptown and demanded one
this had been a prototype that did not make it
it was way too modern for 1962
so we had the only red stove
but other women soon created red kitchens
Male gnomes are known for their tailoring and sewing skills.
They live in roots of oak and pine trees at the bottom of the hills.
People make appointments and they fashion them into suits.
They dress giants, gargoyles green goblins and galoots.
Female gnomes are known for the entertaining prowess.
How can we explain this? Please forgive but allow us…
They visit each other’s houses and laugh about the dust.
None of them like to cook or clean, their stoves all go to rust.
I want to be a gnome! I said.
My daughters chimed in “yes!”
But a female gnome of course.
Their life would suit us best.
Shortest day, longest night
Celebration of light
Glistening ice and snow
Temperatures low
Bare trees
Ponds freeze
Dress warm
Long sleeve uniform
Cardigans and sweatshirts
Goodbye mini skirts
Silk and wool
Indoor pool
Soup and stew
Don’t misconstrue
Wish Bread
Glaze spread
Cinnamon and cloves
On stoves
Ice skating
Snow tube inflating
Snow skiing
Snowboard leaping
Snowshoe wearing
Spectators staring
Hope, intentions, and new year
Celebrate and cheer
Yule brings hope of life
Robins and wrens in strife
Red, white, green, and gold
My, it’s cold!
"What is life but a succession of preludes to unwritten words . . . "
Quote by_Constance La France
BLANK PAGES OF A DOORMAT
a touch of emotion is what she’s after…his touch a fire
lit inside their combatant stoves…pen ought to inspire
tit and tat attention, enclosed in verbal laundromat -
mumbling and tumbling inside - the words of a doormat
no conception in this tight-fisted vestibule - counselor points
to a list of verbs, nouns, adjectives - each word disappoints
11/14/2022
WRITING CHALLENGE - ''V'' Forms
Sponsor: Constance La France
Theme: Writing
Looking out from inside, the sun's rays are deceiving. Upon stepping outdoors, one sees themselves breathing.
A cool crisp air clings to everything around. Shedding trees dead red leaves dance the hardening ground.
There's a scent in the air; a musk of earth's decaying attire. It Brings to mind thoughts of wood stoves, hot cocoa, and cider.
Autumn has taken hold, its colors so beautiful and bright. But nipping right at its heels is winter's steely bite.
My cooler crocked, and my stove tragically burst.
My roof fan has become unhinged from the thread.
The dishwasher declined to start and had scent of burnt.
A breaker in one of my divider stoves is dead.
When I let one loose in the elevator
As we hear a significant break, an aged lady arises.
I advised her: not to be afraid crying isn't for senior.
"My primary care physician thinks I look 20," she replies.
Written: August 1st, 2021
When I Let One Loose In The Elevator Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: charles messina
Narrow cobblestone lanes
The clop-clop of horse-drawn buggies
The crack of the whip...
Pots of Steam on blackened stoves
Whooping cough, scarlet fever
Stale bread, castor oil...
They’ve cancelled the train and the replacement bus
The ferries aren’t running, you can’t get to us
The army patrols are inspecting each street
And handing out rations so we can all eat
And shoppers are buying canned foods in their droves
They’re bulk buying logs for their wood burning stoves
The streets have been gritted so folk turning blue
Can get safely home long before the curfew
There should have been warning, we should have been told
Survival might mean we’ll be eating the old
The news just said chilly, how were we to know
The south would wake up to a half inch of snow
. for public domain
Once treasure stored in sacred troves,
now ashes in abandoned stoves,
and yet we look for Phoenix rising,
renew a flame uncompromising,
so we may seek in storm and rain,
to gather treasure once again.
Solo it came; embedded in the droves.
They covered bodies with once whitened sheets.
Assembly lines carry them to the stoves.
Stench of death and burnt flesh along the streets.
I am doubtful now of ignorance’s bliss.
Red flag; just another blown forewarning.
Death; ‘tis the season of our new abyss.
Where sorrow wakes us, to greet the morning.
Prayers now ending with the plead “please God’s Son!”
Overwhelmed worldwide by a lunar phage.
If only heed had been on precaution
existence may have bilked this final stage.
Solutions are socially systemic.
Every soul, a role. Prevent pandemic!
Three Vegans went to church today
Lighting candles along the way
For garlic cloves
Cooking on stoves
That never once heard, "lettuce pray"
As fall turns, chill leans in
gently pressing warmth away
aging leaves reach a riotous peak
punching pigments everywhere.
Savory smells linger in comfort
busy stoves and fireplaces are lit
little ones dream of costumes
orange and black hues abound
until crimson leaves
break free.
Written on 10/3/2019
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